


hiraeth

by jetame



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, a mix of asoiaf and got
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:26:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetame/pseuds/jetame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she longs for the winterfell of her dreams, she longs for the cold of seasons past. she longs and longs and longs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the patience to start again

The marks have stayed with her. Faded over time, yes, that was to be expected, but they stain her pale skin just the same. With one finger, she traces the ones she can reach, reminding herself of who inflicted each, their names dancing across her tongue with  heavy feet. It had taken her years to let the pain go, let Robb's broken promises and her father's mistakes fade away with the blood. They were young, or stupid, or a combination of both, just like her. They were all to blame. She had forged some type of forgiveness for all, even herself, excusing faults as human nature. But the names that left the scars, even the ones invisible to all, they didn't deserve her sympathies. She simply could not find the kindness in her heart to both forgive her family and forgive her abusers. 

She knew Jon was confused by her change. She had seen his eyes, the way they shown with new vengeance, rage that hadn't ever been there before. But he had good reason, he had died, murdered by his own men, he felt their knives. People understood, they didn't expect him to stay the same, brooding young boy from years before. But it seemed that people couldn't fathom that she might have been changed as well. When she barked orders, or acted on vengeful impulses, the lords balked at her, eyes wide with shock. They had known a kind girl, in years past. The pretty Stark, with dreams of jewels and the Southern Sun. They had expected her to be standing by the Iron Throne, smiling joyously for her husband. They had never expected her to turn up at their doorsteps, inner glow all but dissipated, and demand their armies.

It filled her with an unfathomable rage when anyone stared at her with pitiful eyes. 

"The poor girl." She'd hear them whisper it, as though she had lost her name as well as her innocence. "She's so lost." It made her stop in her tracks. If the Northerners thought her lost, they were right to support Jon, right to ignore her politics and cunning. They thought her lost, and yet she had never felt more energized with purpose in her entire life. If the North would like to treat her as a victim, she didn't care. Nothing could harm her anymore, all her nerve endings had been beaten raw, her heart snapped in a million directions. She didn't need any of their approval. Their approval was but an accessory to her, now. What she wanted was justice.

* * *

 

She had begun to grow louder, Jon had noticed. She stood taller in the Great Hall, ordering the Lords to do things he'd never himself thought. But it was always right, she always had the North's interests in mind. 

They ate supper together, sitting side by side in his solar. Often the room was silent, apart from the winter winds that had begun to sweep through Winterfell. On the days when she spoke, it was of politics. She'd speak of stacks of letters, all marriage proposals. Some days she'd look wistful, like in a memory, when she spoke of possible suitors. 

"Willas Tyrell." She once said, staring down at her meal with a slight blush on her face. "Once I would have thrown myself upon the Olenna Tyrell for this letter." She chuckled, and her smile faded. He didn't mind her memories, if anything they made him feel more connected to Sansa. He himself was rather nostalgic, and it was nice to find another who shared his sentiments, even if only briefly.

With the winter approaching, he found himself getting bolder, asking more questions, digging for more reasons. He had to know Sansa, know what shaped her into a savvy, cunning, woman, without a drop of kindness at times. 

"Why did you never marry Joffrey?" She looked at him, stew in her mouth, and raised her eyebrows. Swallowing, she turned back to her bowl.

"Circumstances changed." It wasn't enough.

"Tell me Sansa. Trust me." She eyed him cautiously, but didn't take another spoonful. 

"Joffrey was a monster. And like all monsters, he needed new prey from time to time." She went silent, but spoke as though it pained her. "The Tyrells wanted a reward for aiding at the Battle of the Blackwater, Cersei hated me anyways. So Marg.." She looked back down at her bowl, as if grieving. "Marg and Joffrey were betrothed. I was set aside. At first it filled me with joy, being free of him. But it was very quickly brought to my attention that if you remain within reach of Lannisters, you'll be swallowed whole, no matter what kind of fight you put up." Sighing, she pushes her chair from the table. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I'm feeling rather tired."

"Sansa..." She stormed away before he could speak another word.

It was something like love that compelled him to follow her.

* * *

 

He finds her against the Heart tree, face as melancholy as the one carved before her. He half expects red tears to drip from her eyes as well, but something inside remembers a time when Sansa Stark would cry for hours about the seemingly stupid of things. Sansa hated her old self. The new woman who sat before him would never let anyone see her cry, even him.

"Prayer helps people cope, at least I hear." He sits on the log beside her, but doesn't catch her accusing gaze. 

A broken laugh escapes her lips. "I've heard that as well...I don't pray, not anymore." She lifted her eyes, looking in the tree's face with spite. "I don't know how someone can pray to any god who lets the world be like this. Lets everyone be so horid. I think of it all the time, the way I've suffered, the way we've all suffered. I think far too much, and the more I think the more I hate these gods, the old and the new." She turns and looks at him now. "Or the Red, despite all it's done for you." He nods, understanding her anger.

"The world is a horrible place, Jon. And as the moons pass it seems that there is less and less to redeem it. These stories, these memories you try to get out of me, I don't think you want them. I think they'll make everything a little darker for you." He sighs, reaching across the open space to clutch her hand. She isn't wearing gloves, despite the falling temperatures.

"Whatever happened, whatever hurt you, I want to know. I want to understand, to help." She shakes her head, slowly pulling her hand out of his.

"I want you to have something to live for." She stands, turning to leave. 

"I have you." 

If she hears him, she doesn't let him know. 


	2. truths to swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon makes a discovery and sansa has a choice

_"I have you."_

The words replay as she breaks into a run, slamming into her ear drums as she runs. 

_I have you. I have you.IhaveyouIhaveyouIhaveyouIhave-_

"Sansa." She stops in her tracts, turning to face Petyr Baelish, who stands outside the guest house, his spindly little hands drawn together in thought. "Is something troubling you in the Godswood?" 

_Oh, please, don't leave yet, Jon._

"No, just in a hurry, I have a raven to send, Lord Baelish." It's brief, and hopefully he believes her. That would be something to pray for. 

"Are you sure it's not a crow, which bothers you so?" He doesn't wait for a response. "I won't keep you, Lady Stark." He walks back into the guest house, and she swears she can audibly hear her heart pounding.

* * *

 

Sansa is absent from supper, choosing to dine with the Lords in the Hall, instead. It only made sense that one of them did, afterall, they hadn't had a gathering in a moon, and their guests had grown restless. They made rude gestures about marriage, prodding Sansa and him about their options. This child of theirs, and that heir, and this Lady. Sansa was usually polite, but dismissed them just the same. He'd remain silent, staying still in his seat at meetings. A King he was, but it was Sansa who ran Winterfell, kept them afloat among conspiracy and drama only rivaled by that in King's Landing. Once, he had asked her where she learned to be so savvy, and she just shut her eyes, telling him the time for memories was long past. 

A typical answer for someone so used to running from her past.

So he ate alone in his solar, reading through letters with a half interest, writing back to those that seemed urgent. He flipped open one addressed to both Sansa and him, penned in beautiful script. Two pages unfurled, one addressed only to Sansa, and one to them both. This he did not notice until it became too late.

_"Lady Sansa,_

_Your letters have left me enchanted. I can hardly sleep, eat or think without your words in my mind. Every part of me longs to know you, to speak to you on every topic, every interest, every dream. The wait for you correspondence all the way from the North is well worth every ounce of ink you pen. "_

Jon grew restless of the love letter, expecting it to be from some minor lord or knight, who must have gotten one response from her. Turning it over he searched through the increasingly messy script for a name. 

"Lord Willas Tyrell, Warden of the South, Lord of Highgarden, and your faithful companion, when the time may come."

He let the letter fall to the floor, half tempted to burn it whole. A man intended to steal Sansa away, to lock her up in some garden, to feed her lies and roses until she was no longer a Stark. He was thankful that a storm had just blown through Winterfell, or he might have grabbed Longclaw and ridden South to kill Tyrell. 

The other letter was as expected, Lady Olenna proposing an alliance. 

* * *

 

"Sansa!" She turned in her place, looking back down the hall towards the voice. Rushing towards her was Jon's hardened face, his eyes set with anger. "You didn't tell me." A thousand possibilities raced through her mind. He must have noticed her frantic searching.

"You didn't tell me you loved him." _Willas_. She eyed him cautiously, trying to remain calm despite the blood that was flowing to her cheeks. Lords and Ladies in the hall could turn and listen at any moment. 

"I never said I did." She turns again, to try and flee from the situation, but on cue, Jon clutches at her wrist so tight she's sure she could bruise. "Jon, I'm a Lady grown. I killed my husband. And yet the Tyrells still wish for an alliance with us, and still write for me. Who am I to ignore that?"

His eyes sink to the floor, his hand falling with them. 

"You can't just leave." 

"And why not? That's what I'm supposed to do." He looks like he's just been kicked in the ribs.

"I forbid it." With a roll of her eyes, she shoots right back at him.

"I am not yours to command." And with that, he's gone.


End file.
